Charis Lang
Inspector Blaikie, when he left the Byron Club, was quite convinced
that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer. Not merely one of the
murderers, but the murderer of both men. The evidence against Prinsep
he was more than ever inclined to discount in face of the impression
which Walter Brooklyn had made upon him. Not only the man’s manner,
but even more his physique, had convinced the inspector of his guilt.
Here at least was a man who combined great physical strength with an
obviously ungovernable temper—just the combination of qualities which
seemed most clearly to fit the case. After all, he had never believed
much in finger-prints. They showed, no doubt, that Prinsep had
actually held in his hand the weapon with which the murder was
committed; but did that prove that he had done the deed? He might
conceivably have taken hold of the club for some quite different
purpose. The prints were not conclusive evidence—on that point he
permitted himself to differ from his superior, who had seemed to think
that they were. They needed explaining, certainly; but there were
other possible explanations. Moreover, if Prinsep had been careless
enough to leave his finger-prints all over the club, was it not
curious that not a trace of them had been left on the dead man’s
clothing, though he had obviously been dragged by the collar from the
statue into the little antique temple so as to be out of the way. A
starched collar was about the likeliest possible place for clear
impressions of fingers. But there was not the trace of a finger-mark
on it. The man who dragged the body to the temple steps had certainly
worn gloves.
Then a very curious point struck the inspector. All the finger-prints
had been partly obliterated, as if some one had handled the club
subsequently. But, in the morning he had been careful that no one
should do so, and he was fairly certain that no one had. Then another
significant point occurred to him. No other finger-prints had been
found on the club. Then, if some one else had handled it subsequently,
that some one else had worn gloves. But, in the garden that morning,
not one of those present had been wearing gloves. The obliterating
marks had been made before the discovery, and therefore also
presumably before the crime. The inspector almost felt that he could
reconstruct the scene. John Prinsep had held the club; but later,
Walter Brooklyn, wearing gloves, had handled it. As usual, the
evidence of the finger-prints, true as far as it went, was misleading.
Only the partial obliteration of the marks had given the key to the
truth. The new explanation, moreover, fitted in exactly with his
observation of the absence of finger-prints on George Brooklyn’s
crumpled collar.
It was true, of course, the inspector reflected, that all this was
only hypothesis. He could not prove absolutely that the obliterations
had been made by a pair of gloved hands holding the club with
murderous purpose, and still less could he prove that the gloved hands
were Walter Brooklyn’s. His conjecture was not evidence in a court of
law; but it served to confirm him in his own opinion. He could now,
with good hope, go in search of further evidence.
What, then, ought his next step to be? His talk with Walter Brooklyn
had opened up certain fresh lines of inquiry. He must see Woodman
again, and find out what had been the business on which Brooklyn had
twice visited him on the Tuesday. And he had better see this Miss Lang
of the Piccadilly Theatre, in case she could throw any light on the
case. And he must try to trace Walter Brooklyn’s stick. He felt sure
that Brooklyn had told him a lie about this, and that he had really
left it in Prinsep’s room in the evening. But it was his business to
make every inquiry, and to test Brooklyn’s story by every possible
means.
By this time—for it was now nine o’clock—Woodman would certainly have
left his office. The inspector felt that he had done a good day’s
work, and could with a good conscience leave further activity for the
morrow. He went home, and straight to bed, in his tiny bachelor flat
in Judd Street.
When Inspector Blaikie woke the following morning he at once began to
turn the case over in his mind. It was now Thursday, and the inquests
had been fixed for Friday. It would be necessary that day to decide on
the procedure to be followed. Ought the police to produce the evidence
which they had gathered, or would it be better to make the proceedings
as purely formal as possible, and to reserve all disclosures for the
trial which would surely follow? The Inspector’s instinct was against
any premature showing of his hand; but he would have to discuss the
matter with Superintendent Wilson, with whom the final decision would
rest. That could stand over until he had seen Woodman and the unknown
Miss Lang. He would arrange to see the superintendent in the
afternoon.
The inspector went out and breakfasted in one of those huge “Tyger”
restaurants which cater for the servantless flat-dwellers of London.
Then he went to Scotland Yard, arranged to see the superintendent
after lunch, and ’phoned through to Woodman arranging an eleven
o’clock appointment at his office. Next he got on the phone to the
Piccadilly Theatre, and discovered that Miss Lang was expected there
at about midday. He left a message stating that he would call to see
her. She lived, as he knew, at Hammersmith, and was not on the
telephone. He also rang through to the sergeant on duty at Liskeard
House, who reported that there were no fresh developments.
At eleven o’clock punctually, the inspector entered Carter Woodman’s
outer office. The old clerk, seated there at his desk, looked up at
him suspiciously from a heap of papers. Rather brusquely, the
inspector announced that he had come to see Woodman by appointment.
The man went to tell his master, and Carter Woodman promptly appeared
at the door of the inner room to bid his visitor welcome. Coming
towards the inspector, he gripped him firmly by the hand. “Well, my
lad, how goes it?” he said. “Have you found the scoundrels? You must
come in and tell me all about it.”
The inspector felt himself almost carried bodily into the inner room,
and seated breathless in a chair, while Carter Woodman took up a
commanding position on the hearthrug. “Quite right to come to me,” he
said. “You must treat me as if I were Sir Vernon—as his man of
business I regard myself as in charge of his affairs. Now let me know
exactly what you have done so far, and I’ll see if I can help you.
But, first, have you any fresh clue as to the identity of the
murderers?”
Inspector Blaikie reflected, as Woodman was speaking, that powerful
physique seemed to run in the Brooklyn family. Woodman was only a
distant relative; yet he had many of the physical characteristics
which the inspector had noticed in Walter Brooklyn. But there the
resemblance seemed to end. Woodman’s bluff and hearty manner, which
seemed to have big reserves of strength and self-control behind it,
was in marked contrast to Walter Brooklyn’s passionate and excitable
temperament. Woodman belonged to a very definite type—the successful
city man who combined keen business acumen and a sharp eye for a
bargain with a hail-fellow-well-met manner and an ability to make
himself instantly at home in almost any society.
The inspector, engrossed with his own thoughts, said nothing in
immediate reply to Woodman’s question; and the latter, after a pause,
repeated it, remarking cheerfully, “What, daydreaming, are we? Won’t
do in a detective, you know. Not at all what we expect of you, eh?”
And, after putting his hand for a moment on the inspector’s shoulder,
he abandoned his place of vantage before the fireplace and sat down in
his desk-chair facing his visitor.
“I saw Mr. Walter Brooklyn yesterday—not, I am afraid, a very pleasant
interview. He seemed to resent very much my asking him any
questions—in fact he all but threw me downstairs,” the detective added
with a laugh.
“What took you to see him?” asked Woodman. “I suppose it was about our
seeing him outside the house.”
“It had come to my knowledge that Mr. Walter Brooklyn was actually in
Mr. Prinsep’s room at Liskeard House at 11.30 on Tuesday night.”
“Good Lord, man, you don’t say so. Are you sure? Why, who in the world
told you that?”
“Nobody actually saw him there; but he telephoned at that time to his
club, said that he was speaking from Liskeard House, and asked if a
registered parcel had arrived for him, as he wanted it sent round
there at once.”
“Dear me, inspector, this throws a new—and a most distressing—light on
the case. Did you discover from Mr. Brooklyn what he was doing at
Liskeard House?”
“No, and it was exactly on that point that I came to see what you
could tell me.”
“My dear chap, I’m as surprised as you are to know that he was there
at all.”
“I understand from Mr. Brooklyn that he had seen you earlier in the
day. It might help if I knew what was the business then.”
“You probably know enough about Walter Brooklyn to guess that it was
about money.”
“I had guessed so; but I am glad to have it definite. Can you give me
rather more particulars?”
“I think I may, though, strictly speaking, the matter ought to be
confidential. Mr. Walter Brooklyn had been trying for some time to get
Sir Vernon to pay his debts, as he had done on several previous
occasions. This time Sir Vernon handed the matter over to John
Prinsep, partly because he was away from town, and partly because he
thought he could trust Prinsep to handle the matter more successfully
than if he did it himself. Prinsep thereupon saw Walter Brooklyn, and
also consulted me. On my advice, he refused to make any payment
without a very clear understanding that this was to be the last
application. Walter Brooklyn tried all means to get the money without
conditions, and in particular refused to disclose in detail what his
liabilities were. Prinsep would not give a penny unless his conditions
were met. On Tuesday afternoon Walter Brooklyn came down by
appointment to see me, and I tried to get him to accept the
conditions. He refused, and declared his intention of seeing Prinsep
again. I told him he must do what he liked about that. I believe he
saw Prinsep. Anyhow, later in the afternoon he came back, and made
another attempt to get me to urge that the conditions should be
modified. I refused of course, and he left. I have not seen him
since.”
“So far as you know, he had made no appointment with Prinsep for the
evening?”
“I know nothing about that. He may have done. He did not tell me.”
“When he came back to you the second time, did he tell you that he had
lost his walking-stick, and ask if you had found it in the office
after he left?”
“Yes, I believe he did. It was not here. I said he had probably left
it in the taxi.”
“And that is all you know about the matter?”
“Yes, of course I know something about the extent of Walter Brooklyn’s
liabilities. They are considerable.”
“We can go into that if it becomes necessary. But can you tell
me—would it be likely that, if Walter Brooklyn arranged a meeting with
Prinsep about money, George Brooklyn would also have been present? It
seems they were both there that evening?”
“I should not have expected so; but it is certainly not impossible.
Prinsep might have called in George, as he was co-heir to Sir Vernon’s
money, to help him make it quite plain that the money would only be
paid if the conditions were met. Or, of course, it may have been an
accident. George Brooklyn might have been with Prinsep when Walter
called. Have you any reason to believe that it was so?”
“Well, we know that Walter Brooklyn, although he denies it, was in
Prinsep’s room at about 11.30. We know that George Brooklyn left the
house at about that time, and he must have come back at some time
later to the garden, if not to the house. It seems at least likely
that they met either before or after 11.30.”
“Yes, that seems probable. But I am afraid I know no more than I have
told you.”
“Perhaps you can help me a little more. I am getting interested in
this Miss Lang, who seems to turn up at every point in the story. It
now appears that Walter Brooklyn went to see her at the theatre on
Tuesday afternoon. He saw her and Prinsep there separately.”
“I know nothing about that. I told you he went off to see Prinsep; but
I have no idea what he can have been doing with Miss Lang.”
“Did Walter Brooklyn know Miss Lang?”
“Quite probably. He had a large theatrical acquaintance. But I did not
know he was friendly with her.”
“But you said that Mr. George Brooklyn was to have seen Miss Lang on
Tuesday evening.”
The lawyer nodded.
“And now,” the inspector continued, “we find Walter as well as George
Brooklyn mixed up with her. May not she have had something to do with
the evening meeting at Liskeard House?”
“Really, inspector, that is a matter for you. I have never seen the
young woman, and I know no more about her than I have already told
you. You had better see her yourself.”
“That is what I propose to do; but I thought you might be able to
throw some light on Walter Brooklyn’s dealings with her.”
“None at all, unfortunately. I wish I could; for there is nothing I
want more than to get this horrible business cleared up.”
The inspector saw that there was nothing more to be learned from
Carter Woodman at that stage. He accordingly took his leave, and went
in search of Charis Lang, who, he was beginning to feel, might well
hold the clue to the whole mystery. His original idea had been to see
her at her home; but he had decided that it would be better to talk to
her at the theatre, where the event in which she was concerned had
actually taken place. Accordingly, he took a taxi to the Piccadilly
Theatre, and sent up his card to Miss Lang, who had just arrived, and
been given his note and message.
When he was shown into Charis Lang’s room, Inspector Blaikie had his
first surprise. He had been expecting, without any good reason, to be
confronted with a beauty of the picture post card type, some little
bit of fluff from the musical comedy stage. But he saw at once that
Charis Lang was not at all that kind of woman. She was a girl whom no
one but an idiot—and Inspector Blaikie was far from being an
idiot—would think of calling pretty. Beautiful, some people would call
her, but less from any regularity of feature than from an effect of
carriage and expression—a dignity without aloofness, a self-possession
that was neither hard nor unwomanly. The inspector did not think her
beautiful—she was not of the type he admired—but he said to himself
that here was obviously a woman of character. And he at once changed
his mind about the right way of tackling Miss Lang. She was, he
recognised, a person with whom it would pay to be quite frank.
“I understand,” she began, “that you wish to ask me some questions
about”—she hesitated a moment—“this terrible affair.” The inspector
could see that she was deeply moved.
“Yes, Miss Lang,” he replied, “I have come to ask you for certain
information. We have, of course, every desire to trouble you as little
as possible.”
“Oh,” she interrupted, “I only wish I had more to tell you. By all
means, ask me what you will.”
“I am afraid some of my questions may seem to you rather impertinent.”
“No, inspector. I understand it is your business to get at the truth.
I shall answer, whatever you may ask.”
“Then, first of all, will you tell me about Mr. Walter Brooklyn. I
understand that he came to see you last Tuesday here. Is that so?”
“I confess I am surprised at the question. I thought it was about Mr.
George Brooklyn and Mr. Prinsep that you wished to question me. But I
can answer at once. Mr. Walter Brooklyn did come to see me.”
“Do you know Mr. Walter Brooklyn well?”
“No, hardly at all. Indeed, until that day I had scarcely spoken to
him. I had met him a few times in large gatherings at Liskeard House
and elsewhere.”
“Then he is not a friend of yours?”
“By no means.” The answer was so decided as to startle the inspector.
“Have you any objection,” he asked, “to telling me on what business
Mr. Walter Brooklyn visited you on Tuesday?”
“It is not a thing I like to speak about; but I am fully prepared to
tell you. Mr. Brooklyn came to make to me a dishonourable suggestion
that I should help him to extract money from Mr. Prinsep.”
“In what way?”
“Mr. Prinsep had refused to give Mr. Walter Brooklyn a certain sum of
money which he wanted. He came to ask me to bring pressure to bear on
Mr. Prinsep to give it to him. He suggested that I had a hold over Mr.
Prinsep—I suppose I must tell you what made him think that too—and
that if I was to ask he would get the money.”
“And on what ground did he ask you to do this?”
“He threatened that if I did not he would tell Sir Vernon about me and
Mr. Prinsep. He made the most horrible insinuations.”
“You were friendly with Mr. Prinsep?”
“Two years ago John Prinsep asked me to marry him, and I accepted him.
Our engagement was kept secret at his request.”
“Miss Lang, I am sorry if I give you pain; but I must ask you whether
you were engaged to Mr. Prinsep at the time of his death.”
The answer came clearly, but in a voice totally devoid of expression.
“I do not know,” said Charis Lang. “The engagement had at least not
been formally broken off.”
“And of course you rejected Walter Brooklyn’s proposal?”
“I did.”
“Did you tell Mr. Prinsep about it?”
“No. It was not a matter I could bring myself to mention to him.”
“You understood that Walter Brooklyn intended to carry the story to
Sir Vernon?”
“Yes, and of course Sir Vernon would have been very angry. He has
always wanted John to marry his ward, Miss Cowper.”
“What had Walter Brooklyn to gain by telling Sir Vernon?”
“I suppose he thought that Sir Vernon would soon make John give me up,
and that between them they could fix up for John and Miss Cowper to
marry. Or perhaps he relied on my telling John, and thought John would
let him have the money to prevent him from going to Sir Vernon.”
“Yes, that seems the most probable explanation. And did you see Mr.
Prinsep after your meeting with Walter Brooklyn?”
“Yes, for a few moments. He had seen Mr. Brooklyn, too, and was very
angry. Mr. Brooklyn had used the same threat to him as he used to me.”
“And how had Mr. Prinsep taken it?”
“He had refused to give Mr. Brooklyn a penny, and said he would see
Sir Vernon himself.”
“In order to tell him of your engagement?”
Again came the answer, painfully given, “I do not know.”
“I am sorry, Miss Lang, but I have not quite done. Did you see Mr.
George Brooklyn on Tuesday?”
“Yes, he came here to see me after he had left Liskeard House in the
evening.”
“At what time was that?”
“It was after ten o’clock—probably about a quarter past. I am off the
stage for a long time then.”
“Was Mr. George Brooklyn a friend of yours?”
“Yes, in a way. At least, Mrs. George Brooklyn is a very dear friend.
I used to understudy her when she was Isabelle Raven. She was _the_
Isabelle Raven, you know.”
“Yes. Then there was nothing unusual in Mr. George Brooklyn’s coming
to see you here?”
“I don’t think he had ever been to my room before. I had often met him
at his own house or at Liskeard House.”
“Did he come for some special purpose?”
“Yes, he came to see me about my engagement to Mr. Prinsep.”
“Do you mind telling me more exactly what you mean?”
“Until recently, Mr. Prinsep always behaved to me as if we were
engaged. Lately, his manner to me had changed. When I spoke to him
about it, he laughed it off, and I tried to go on treating him as I
had done. But about a fortnight ago I had a letter from Mr. Carter
Woodman—you know him, I expect—saying he would like to discuss with me
certain matters placed in his hands by Mr. Prinsep. I wrote back
saying that I could not conceive that there was anything in my
relations with John that called for a lawyer’s interference. Then I
took the letter to John, and we had a real quarrel about it. I asked
him if I was to consider our engagement at an end; but he put me off,
and before I could get him to answer we were interrupted. I did not
see him again until Tuesday, and then only for a minute. I meant to
try to clear matters up, and to tell him I could not go on like that;
but he was called away, and I had no chance. Then in the evening
George Brooklyn came to see me.”
“Will you tell me what happened then?”
“He asked me point-blank whether I had been engaged to John. I said
that I certainly had been, but that I didn’t know whether I still was.
I told him that I still loved John; but I asked him to let John
know—he had promised to see him when he left me—that I considered our
engagement definitely at an end, unless he desired to renew it.”
“Miss Lang, my questions must have been very painful, and it has been
very good of you to answer them so freely. I think there is only one
thing more I need ask. At what time did Mr. George Brooklyn leave
you?”
“A few minutes after half-past ten. I went on the stage again almost
immediately afterwards.”
“And you did not see Mr. George Brooklyn again?”
“No.”
“You saw no more of either Mr. Prinsep or Mr. Walter Brooklyn, I
suppose?”
“Yes, as it happens, I caught sight, out of my window, of Mr. Prinsep
walking in the garden behind the theatre. That must have been about a
quarter past eleven.”
“And that is all you saw. He was alone?”
“Yes. I saw no one else.”
“Then I have only to thank you again for the way in which you have
told me what you know.” And with that the inspector took his leave,
feeling that, as a result of his talk, he had scored another good
point against Walter Brooklyn. Quite apart from the murders, the man
really deserved hanging for his behaviour to Charis Lang—at least that
was how Inspector Blaikie felt about it. He must get enough evidence
to convince his reluctant superior, and thereafter twelve good men and
true, that Walter Brooklyn was the murderer. John Prinsep, perhaps,
was not such a bad riddance: certainly he had been behaving like a
cad. But then, Charis Lang was in love with him, and that was enough
to cover a multitude of sins. For her sake at least the murderer must
be brought to justice. Moreover, George Brooklyn seemed to have been a
good sort. The inspector was inclined to dismiss the idea that he had
had anything to do with the killing of Prinsep, even though his talk
with Prinsep after leaving Charis Lang might have afforded full
provocation, if, as seemed likely, Prinsep had refused to marry her.
The inspector’s last thought was that it was still a tangled enough
skein that he had to unravel. But some at least of the knots had been
successfully untied.